


Live Wire

by anatomical_heart



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence and Relationship Dynamics, Casually Mentioning Murdering Someone You Care About While Making Out, Cunnilingus, F/M, Non-Graphic Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Reference to Huck, References to Command, References to Torture, Violence, references to murder, references to violence, torture mention, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 02:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatomical_heart/pseuds/anatomical_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Charlie tasted like gasoline beneath all that sugar. He tasted like gunpowder and cleaning oil and blood. Sharp, metallic... addictive.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Somewhere inside and around season three. A snapshot of Quinn and Charlie in relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live Wire

Charlie tasted like gasoline beneath all that sugar. He tasted like gunpowder and cleaning oil and blood. Sharp, metallic... addictive. He tasted like desperation, sometimes. Like when he was pulling her under and further away from who she used to be. Like he couldn’t wait to see who she’d become. Like he couldn’t get enough of her. He got this look on his face every once in a while... like he loved Them. The idea of a _Them,_ at least. (She's pretty sure he didn't just let her believe that; their lies and boundaries crossed over and blurred together too many times to count, but she felt like he couldn't hide that part of himself away from her.) Like when _Robin_ became less about Huck and turned into something else entirely. It would eke out behind an amused quirk of Charlie’s lips and a flash of his teeth; she got the feeling he kept using it because he started to think of himself as Batman. Being a professional instrument of torture - a killer for hire - she imagined his expectations for human connection were pretty low. Grasping for whatever he could get under the guise of flippant, biting, sarcastic remarks, and loyalty to the person who dolled out assignments, who plunked down the cash. _Robin_ was his way of setting her apart. _Robin_ was his way of marking her potential. _Robin_ was him claiming her as his partner. 

Like the first time he saw her use the blowtorch. The sizzle of skin and the smell of burning hair... it was so fucking clear how it was all like music and perfume and wine and roses to him. Like she had done something no one else ever had. Like maybe she was the answer to a prayer he’d never quite made or had long given up on; it was like he saw her for the first time that night. The surprise and the unspeakable joy written across his face was hard to look at. He just kept _grinning._

When she finally finished with the target, she was shaking. But it was not from nerves or fear, and it was definitely not from exhaustion. She was a motherfucking live wire burning bright enough to light up all of D.C. She was fucking fantastic. She was fucking _scary._ It took everything she had inside of her to shut off the brand new Bosch cordless power drill (that fit in her hand like a dream, holy shit; she’d begged him to buy it on their trip to Home Depot, and she would fully demonstrate her gratitude for his indulgence once they got cleaned up) and set it gently down on the tarp-covered floor, safely out of the way. Once she ripped off her blood-splattered face-shield, all the air in her lungs escaped in a triumphant half-laugh, half-shout that held no vocabulary, only the manic sound of an intense release that screamed, _I didn’t know I could do that, but I was a goddamn miracle, did you see?!_

Charlie met her there, in that rush of exhilaration. He shouted, too - his excitement matching hers, answering hers. He reached out and cradled her face in the palms of his hands, eyes wide, and declared, “You were fucking _incredible!_ ” 

God, it was so _sincere..._ she actually blushed. They shared a kiss that had too much teeth to be called such, but it was Them and it was perfect, and when he pulled away, he looked her square in the eye, and said, “I am _so proud_ of you.” 

And he was. 

That’s when she learned the nights after killing someone were the best. They were both high on adrenaline, feeling like gods - the elation and frenzy and _power_ making her feel drunk. And Jesus _fuck,_ did he drink her up. He took in greedy mouthfuls of her and she let him; he Understood. He knew. 

She was left trembling and limp when he came back up for air, his mouth slick and red. She lay boneless, glassy-eyed, and staring at the ceiling, their shared shallow breathing and her pulse thrumming in her ears. He leaned his cheek against her inner thigh as he mapped the curves of her body, his touch gentle but sure. Shivers spread across her skin, and she spared a look down at him. 

He was watching her - satisfaction and reverence in his eyes, longing licking around the edges of his face - but said nothing. His expression pulled something taut inside of her; it wasn’t a challenge, exactly. But she could feel it - an unspoken, subtle shift of control. Like she could tell him to do anything, and he would do it just because she asked. Like he’d be glad to do it. Like he’d give anything - _do anything_ \- to do what she wanted.

 _Fuck,_ what a rush.

Quinn leaned up on her elbows, her eyes boring into his, commanding; Charlie leaned up, too, seeming to come to attention, brows lifting in silent query.

“Did I tell you to stop?” Her voice was quiet, low in her throat - she almost didn’t recognize it. 

A change came over him, then, at her tone; something seemed to click and fall into place. He smiled - hungry, pleased, and eager. Ducking his head, snaking his arms around her legs, he licked a hot line right up to her clit like it was his job. Like there was nothing else he’d rather do.

She couldn't get enough. Neither of them could. Like she thought: Addictive.

One night, on a stakeout in his car, parked half a block away from the target’s brownstone, Charlie told her she had a death wish. He said it nonchalantly after finishing a cheese pastry, crumpling the wax paper in his hands and tossing it over his shoulder, into the back seat, like it was nothing. Like he’d suggested they go see a movie or something. 

She smiled wryly, took a sip of coffee, and countered that he was in the same line of work, so he must have a death wish, too. 

His lips twisted into an expression she couldn’t decipher: He wasn’t smirking, he wasn’t laughing at her. She thought maybe it was something closer to patronizing, but it didn’t have the familiar taste of acid or condescension. He kissed her, then, tongue sweeping into her mouth. She’d grown accustomed to the sugar clinging to his teeth, but the grease from the butter and cheese on his lips was soft. Sweet in a delicate way he never was. So often, it was nothing less than abrasive - a razor blade against the soft part of her cheek. She hummed into the kiss and lightly raked the nails of her right hand down his chest, her left hand holding onto her large drip coffee like a champ. (She prided herself on squashing the addendum _Like a gladiator_ before it was even a fully-formed thought inside her head.) 

Nipping at her bottom lip, he laughed breathlessly, elaborating: “I mean, you shacking up with me: You have a death wish.”

She set down her coffee since it seemed this was going to be the night’s _thing_ that set them on a crash-course spiraling into each other. “Mmm, you know I love it when you talk dirty,” she murmured drily against his neck, teeth worrying the skin beneath his Adam’s apple.

The sound of Charlie cocking his CZ 75 SP-01 9mm sliced right through her, down to the marrow. He eased the cold steel of the barrel right up against her temple, and the moment it touched her skin, she couldn’t help the small, helpless moan that escaped her. 

_Oh, God._

Her thighs started to shake, and she curled her fingers into his shirt, pulling him closer. She leaned into the muzzle of the gun like it was an extension of his hand and opened her eyes, the sudden arousal making her dizzy. 

Quinn heard as much as saw the breath rush right out of him. She relished the _holy shit_ look of awe and absolute astonishment that graced his features, making a sick heat throb low in her belly. She fucking loved these moments, when he’d raise the stakes just a little bit more, and she not only called his bet, but doubled down on the danger, the risk, the excitement. 

_Dare you. I can do that, too._

She should’ve been disgusted. She should’ve been afraid of him. But she wasn’t; it all turned her on. What was that expression about only feeling alive when so close to death? She didn’t much care what that said about it her - all she wanted was more.

“I’d do it, y’know,” he murmured, like he was saying, _I love you._

And there it was. Confessing he’d murder her if Command ordered it made her gasp, surge forward, and capture his lips with hers again.

She eased the white-knuckle grip she had on his shirt, right hand slipping down his abdomen as she nodded, whispering, “I know.” 

He stared at her mouth as she said it. She watched his mind work, turning over what they just said aloud to each other. Realization washed across his face like devastation, blooming like a bruise against his slack jaw; he had just spoken words that could never be unsaid. There was no going back. For the first time since they became Them... she saw him falter; he lowered the gun.

 _Snick._

The sound of Charlie's government-issued switchblade coming to life in her hand filled the space between them. He kept it in a holster on his hip, and he didn’t know how good she was at stealing because he wasn’t the one who taught her. Without missing a beat, she slid it up against the seam where his leg met his torso with perfect precision. It felt so at home in that place, a precious few centimeters from both his balls and the femoral artery... she really could have had her choice, in that moment. 

“And so would I,” she promised, voice rough. Downright menacing, point of fact. Especially considering she didn't answer to Command. If Quinn wanted it done, she wouldn't have to wait for orders; he'd be dead before she could even have second thoughts.

She bared her teeth in something that was too feral to be called a smile - it was dangerous, taunting. _She_ was. She was lethal, uncompromising; she could _ruin_ him. She could bring down ruin to so many in their little town without even trying. She wasn’t one to be fucked with any longer; it had been a long time since all Quinn Perkins could do was get a coffee order right. She wasn't afraid of anything anymore.

Shock and desire etched themselves onto his face - he looked like he might actually say _I love you._ Instead, he kissed her, his free hand coming up to tangle in her hair. She kissed him back, and it was nothing short of a duel. The barrel of the gun was up against her temple once more and she was wet and wanting it - wanting him - because there was no more under to get. She was swallowed up by this thing that had taken root inside of her, and she loved every second of it. 

He may have tasted like gasoline, gunpowder, and cleaning oil underneath all that sugar, but now she tasted like pain, power, and death.


End file.
